


Divinity

by makapedia



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Guardian Angel AU, angel au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-04 03:49:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6640171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makapedia/pseuds/makapedia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's a guardian angel trying to earn her wings. He's an anxious teen trying to find his way. SoMa week 2016.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Types of Kisses

_types of kisses_  
( 14 )

* * *

Mom kisses his forehead and cries messily when she picks him up at the police station.

The smothering is foreign. It's what he expects from Wes, maybe, but not from his mother, who's done such a bang-up job of nudging him toward the spotlight and other assorted things that make his anxiety spike and his general well-being plummet. He wonders what the occasion is for such dramatic affection - because surely this isn't the same woman who had pushed him to perform with his dazzlingly talented brother, and who - more often than not - glances over him to help said dazzlingly talented brother make sure his piece is in the right key and _oh, your hair looks just perfect, break a leg, Wes, darling!_

He tries to squirm his way out of her embrace. Her perfume is suffocating and shoots down his throat like an unwelcome guest and he needs out. The police officer who's effectively been playing babysitter gasps and coos, as if it's actually adorable that his face is being buried in his mother's expensive cleavage, and Soul regrets not running faster when that dog started barking.

"Don't you ever scare me like that again!" she gushes, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. Mascara stains the tracks of water and turns her undereye area a smudgy gray.

Soul counts to three in his head. Do not snarl. Do not make it worse. But most of all, do not cry - frustration be damned, he's a teenager now, _a cool teen,_ and cool teens don't cry - they are in charge of their own life.

His mother kisses his forehead again and he feels that much more powerless. He's not in charge at all. He's _never_ been.

"Sorry," he grumbles insincerely.

Part of him wants to make a grab for his backpack, resting so close on the plastic seat right behind him, and make another run for it, but he's vastly outnumbered and he still hasn't hit his growth spurt yet. Between all the cops and the vice his mother has him tangled in, he's not going anywhere. He's trapped. Again.

She pushes back his bangs and kisses his forehead again, twice, three times, surely dotting his (now) damp skin with splotches of red lipstick. "If you're unhappy, we can talk about it," she says, trying to be soothing, anyway, but it only inspires Soul to clench his fists tighter and grit his teeth. "I don't know where you got the idea that we don't want you home, but-"

Soul forces his breath through his nose and she flinches, sniffles. Before long, her lips are on his forehead again and they rest there. Her hand trembles on his cheek, holding him still, and she sniffles, quivering, and Soul can just about feel the moment his mother's heart breaks.

_Once the problem child, always the problem child,_ he thinks darkly, and wonders just when he'll manage to get something right.

.

His father, thankfully, does not kiss him upon his return.

Wes, however, _does._

He plops two loving, brotherly smooches on each of his cheeks and Soul reacts immediately, scrubbing the affection off with a firm palm and a passionate scowl. While his dad does an A+ job of being generally uncomfortable and scoots around his wayward son without so much as a greeting, Wes takes both of Soul's cheeks into his hands and holds his face still. He doesn't cry like their mom, but there's still a twinge of guilt lurking in those warm brown eyes that has Soul wondering if his brother feels more than he lets on.

It wouldn't surprise him. He lives in a house of appearances and status, fine china and leather upholstery. One does not wear the Evans name without knowing a thing or two about maintaining a reputation, and they're a clan of closet thespians. Soul knows he's been an actor practically since birth, despite never once stepping onto stage with memorized lines buzzing from his lips. An Evans is suave and collected, _cool_ and put together, and Wes is nothing if not a prodigy.

"Gross, Wes," Soul finds himself mumbling.

His brother pinches his cheek and exhales. Some of that guilt melts and gives way to the burning kindness that makes Soul want to turn around and run all over again. He doesn't, though; he sits and holds his tongue like a good Evans while Wes shakes his head and says, "You had us worried sick. You should've seen Dad's face when he realized you weren't still hiding in your room."

"Dad didn't have a problem with me being gone when he was ripping my sheet music in half."

Wes purses his lips. "He's just old fashioned, Soul. He doesn't get your music."

"Yeah, well," Soul says, shifting his weight to his other foot. His bag is heavy on his back and his shoulders ache, but there's an invisible weight yanking his body down, always down, and he can't find it in him to straighten up even if he wanted to. "Doesn't have to now. It's gone."

"Soul…"

"It's whatever," he lies swiftly. Anything to get Wes off of his back, anything to get him out of the center of attention and back behind his closed door. "Can I go to my room now?"

His brother raises an eyebrow. "Did you really think you could attempt to run away from home without anyone talking to you about it?"

"Was kind of hoping no one would notice I was gone." He'd been sort of banking on it, too. More often than not, Soul is left to his own devices in the afternoon hours, as long as he makes it to dinner on time and puts on a clean pair of pants before stepping foot in his mother's (read: the housekeeper's) clean kitchen.

Wes shakes his head. "C'mon, little bro. Of course someone would notice. You live here. You're part of the family. We love you."

"Please don't get mushy on me."

Before long, his hair is ruffled and Wes is smiling that sad smile again, brown eyes warm with nauseating affection, and Soul thinks he might hate him, just a bit, for getting him to feel like he might belong, even just for a moment. Instead, he thinks about the torn sheet music, the fight over lunch, his father's raised voice - proclamations that his music is _evil,_ is dark and chaotic and isn't befitting of someone in this family - and his resolution hardens again. He _doesn't_ belong. And he'll never belong, not if that's what's lurking in the pits of his soul, chiming like the messy clattering of church bells, no matter what Wes says.

His face feels hot. Anger is always easier than sadness.

Soul pushes his way past him, hand clutching the straps of his bag. "I'm going to my room."

"Soul!" Wes cries after him. "Hey, wait a minute!"

"Don't want to talk. 'M tired."

His voice is incredulous. "Can't you sleep later?"

He sort of feels like laughing. Ah, but that's not really how these things work - not that Wes would ever know, perfect Wes, with the room full of trophies and awards and the confidence to back his skills. Soul snorts and feels himself cave in just that little bit more. "No."

Wes lingers behind him, a mere three steps behind him as Soul swings open the front door, and asks, "Why?" just as Soul's shrugging off the concerned glances of one of the housekeepers.

There are so many eyes on him at once. Stage fright prickles at his chest before burning bright in his stomach, his throat, and Soul swallows thickly, unable to deal with everything at once. He can still hear the subtle sniffling of his mother, the awkward, unsure mumbling of his normally quite stoic father, and he makes the mistake of turning to look at Wes again, who stares at him much like one might a kicked puppy. He pities him. He worries about him.

"Soul," Wes tries again. "You know they're going to tighten the reigns now. If you'd just talk to me-"

"About what, Wes?" Soul snaps. His eyes feel hot and he refuses to cry, _he will not cry,_ because he's not a kid anymore and it's about time he acts like it. "I tried to run away from home. I don't want to be here."

"Soul," he says softly, practically withering. There's a chip in his armor, a moment of weakness in his otherwise spotless bravado. "They love you. Mom's _crying_."

But she never cried when he did, or when he clearly expressed his discomfort and dissatisfaction with years of piano lessons - didn't _even_ budge when her husband ripped up her own son's hard work in a flurry of emotion. If this is how his parents show their love, Soul thinks he's quite fine without it. As a matter of fact, he'd rather not have it at all.

Soul drops his gaze and fixes it on his feet. "They sure have a funny way of showing it."

"They just don't understand. Your music is different, but it's not bad. It's _special._ "

" _Different,_ " Soul laughs humorlessly. It's like a bark, and he can see Wes' hands flexing before he tucks them neatly into the pockets of his slacks. "Is that what they're calling me now?"

When he says nothing more, Soul thinks he's won, but it doesn't feel at all like victory. Wes leans over and kisses the crown of his head and Soul steels himself, determined to find a way out, determined to overcome the billowing, bleak cloud ahead and escape the tomb that awaits him upstairs.

.

His first impression of his guardian angel is she's _tiny._

Everything about her is tiny, from her slim shoulders to her skinny waist to her - he averts his eyes promptly from her chest and tries to play it off like he hadn't just been considering the size of her quite-small-but-still-kind-of-perky-and-interesting tits. She's dressed in all white, a floaty little dress that hugs her skinny curves, with her light hair tied up in twin, neat pigtails. The most startling thing about her, though, is her eyes - wide, bright green eyes, framed by soft, blonde lashes that gleam with an almost otherworldly light. They're trained on him like a hawk, like he's the only one in the room, as if his overzealous, obnoxious brother isn't standing only two feet away from him, grinning like a fool.

Soul turns from her and glares at Wes. "What the fuck?!"

"I told you!" he says, still beaming with pride. "I got you an angel!"

" _That_ is not an angel," Soul blurts, jabbing a finger in her direction. " _That_ is a thirteen year old girl in a short dress, and _I'm not interested!_ "

Said thirteen year old girl in a short dress bristles like a cat, even going as far as hissing, "Hey!"

"She's _your_ angel, Soul," Wes insists. "All I had to do was a little research and then she was here. Maka's been looking after you for a long time, and even she knew that you needed a little extra help these days. Don't be rude, introduce yourself! You have a guest!"

A guest in all white sitting on his ugly, pretentious floral bedding. He gets a better look at her. His previous observation still remains true - she's small, with a cute button nose, but the pale legs that peek out of her light skirt go on for days. And when she catches him staring - _observing!_ \- she tilts her head and snaps her fingers. Soul jerks alert and practically hears the smugness in Wes' expression.

"If she's my angel, why do I have to introduce myself to her?" he spits. "And where are her wings?"

"I'm right here, you know," she finally pipes up. Her voice is soothing, like muffled windchimes. "You could just ask me?"

"Fine," he says, pouting. "Who the fuck are you and how much did my brother pay you to play along?"

Her brows furrow and she says, "He didn't?"

"Come on. And get off my bed!"

She stands up, and fuckitall, _she's taller than him._ Just a little bit, but it's enough to inspire him to drag his slouch lower, as if to better mask the fact that she's actually a few inches taller than he is at his full height. Her posture is impeccable, shoulders back, hands linked behind her daintily. This girl - Maka, whatever her name is - is a piano instructor's wet dream.

"Okay," she begins. Her brows are still furrowed when she continues, asking, "Is this better?" before taking a step toward him.

"No. Who are you?"

"Maka," she answers without missing a beat. "Your guardian angel."

"No, seriously."

She smiles like sunshine and says, "Your name is Sullivan Muriel Evans and you turned fourteen a week ago. You like to let your cereal get soggy before you eat it and you hate waking up before noon. You're afraid of the dark but too proud to say so, so you sleep with the television on mute. You can burp the alphabet. You have an outie-"

Those wind chimes are suddenly a lot less soothing. There's no way she could know all of that about him unless she had been observing him - which is creepy in itself, because _how often does she watch him?_ \- and while it does a great job of making him feel a hell of a lot less alone, he's not sure it's really in a good way. He hisses and cuts her off with a wave of his arms, trying valiantly to ignore Wes as he gasps in glee and Maka as she continues to stare at him, as if she can see into his very soul.

"Okay!" he blurts. "Okay, fine, I believe you - just quit it with the Sullivan thing, would you? It's-"

"Soul," she says back. "I know."

Creepy.

The closer she gets, the more he believes the whole _not of this world_ thing; she might not have any wings, but she brings with her a breath of fresh air, a subtle glow of white light - and green eyes so damn bright they might as well be headlights. She flickers a glance down at his chest as if she's reading something before smiling carefully back at him, as if there's nothing absurd about the conversation.

But he still has questions. _So many questions._ And for once, he's not afraid to speak up.

"Where the fuck did you find an _actual angel?"_ He splutters, spinning to face Wes. "How do you just find an ANGEL?! Did you use google? I know you're not religious-"

Maka hums thoughtfully. "Humans do have such odd faiths."

"I wasn't looking for an angel," Wes admits, smiling sheepishly. He takes another glance at Maka, who's steadily creeping her way into the circle of conversation, and offers her a polite nod. "I just wanted to help you, and I was going to call about getting you an appointment with a therapist when I stumbled upon her."

Something rumbles within him. "A _therapist?!_ Wes, you know I hate talking to people!"

His brother stares, unblinking. "I thought keeping my baby brother safe was more important than that, actually."

That rumbling _something_ inflates in his chest and makes him feel like a right bastard. The guilt is thick, and he feels selfish - and then it pops with a pinprick of anger and Soul grumbles, fists jammed into his pockets moodily. Wes hefts a sigh and angel girl ( _Maka,_ he reminds himself) tugs on Soul's sleeve.

He just about jumps a mile. The only thing worse than talking to strangers is being touched by one. "Hey-!"

"I came of my own accord. It was just a coincidence that your brother found me before I found you. I'm not used to walking the ground yet. Your world is… darker."

Soul forces a breath through his nose. "How did you even get here if no one summoned you?"

"Oh, but you did!" She bounces on the balls of her feet. "You wished for help, and here I am!"

"I didn't-" he croaks, stuttering. Had he? He'd certainly been unhappy the night before, had considered less favorable ways of getting _out_ … He sulks beneath Wes' watchful stare, feeling very much like a bug on a windshield, smashed open for the world to see. His guts are not attractive, not a piece of abstract art, and he's never really been good at suffering prettily. Once an eyesore, _always_ an eyesore.

Instead of owning up to the reality of it, he flusters and scowls, muttering, "I doubt blasting MCR at midnight really counts as a divine cry for help."

She frowns. "That's not what-"

"Where are your wings? I thought guardian angels always just sort of helped and supported from above."

His so-called angel _blushes_. Before he has time to really think on it, she's babbling, "I haven't earned them yet," and tacking on a quick, "I can't stay here long unless we officially _bond_ ," all the while glowing a darling pink. If Soul weren't still so freaked out by the whole thing, he might find it cute, but she's _not human,_ he's fucked up, and attraction is still a weird thing for him. Even so, he can't deny that she's a pretty little thing, even if she probably hasn't hit angel puberty yet and still wears her hair in twintails.

He blinks blankly at her. "Bond?"

Those headlights of hers are focused on him again and he's nothing more than a deer. "Will you accept my help?"

"Do I have a choice?"

Wes clears his throat. "If I may make a suggestion-"

"-He has to do it himself!" Maka cuts in. "Let Soul talk."

The appreciation is overwhelming. He's never heard anyone talk to Wes like that - especially not for his sake - and it's probably because she's blindsided him with compassion that he allows himself to submit to all of this weirdness.

"Okay," he says. "Bond with me."

"Okay?"

He nods. She brightens, then pinks further, then _moves,_ and his first kiss isn't anything like he thought it might be. It's awkward, because he's barely met the girl and she's taller than he is, but there's also warmth, a tickle in his throat, and virgin soft lips pressed to his, tender and careful. She doesn't push or prod, just holds his jaw for a moment before she's pulling away, giggling anxiously, telling him that they're _bonded,_ whatever that means, and she'll be staying with him for a while.

"Until you feel comfortable on your own," she chirps, still giddy off of god only knows what. "Just think of me as your companion!"

Wes' excited gasping can wait. Soul squints at her, half tempted to press his fingers to his lips, unsure if the warmth budding in his chest is the work of angels or something else. He chooses to focus on the freckles stippling along her nose instead.

Fourteen's _definitely_ going to be a wild ride.

 

  |   | 

|    
---


	2. Can't Sleep

_can't sleep  
_ ( 15 )

* * *

It's nights that are the hardest for him.

Long winter nights, to be exact. The days are shorter, which means less daylight and more darkness for his demons to fester in. He spends the better part of his evenings hidden away beneath the covers, alternating between scrolling Tumblr on his phone and falling to sleep's seductive wiles. More often than not, though, rest is a double sided blade, because the monsters come out at night and drag their claws down his back whenever he lets his guard down.

And tonight is just like all of the others. The alarm clock next to his bed blinks red, 3:42 flashing in staccato beats, the only light in his otherwise pitch black room. He supposes he could give in just this once and flick on the television, just to chase the dark away, but the remote is too far away, seated on his nightstand, and the anxiety still sits like a dead weight on his chest.

He's too old for this shit. He's not a child anymore and nightmares shouldn't still be keeping him up at night, even if said nightmares have evolved from the blinding ray of a spotlight to things considerable darker, like static, ominous jazz, and demons that nip at his ankles. Demons, he thinks with a shallow breath, who know things about him no one else does, things that make him sweat and crumble beneath the overwhelming truth of it all. Not good enough, never good enough, _who could ever love a mess like him?_

How can he expect anyone to love him and understand him if he can't even do it himself?

The flashing of the alarm clock is monotonous now. Soul rolls onto his side and curls into his pillow, cradling it to his chest. He tries breathing deeply, slowly, _anything_ to calm down the churning of his stomach or the tightness in his throat.

Soul nearly jumps when he hears the creaking of his door. He glances over, frantic and afraid that his dreams have come to life - but instead of a stout demon with blades for teeth standing in his doorway, it's Maka, the light from the hallway surrounding her in a yellowed glow. She scrubs her eyes with the palm of her hand, yawning widely as he tucks his fear deep within him and rolls back to face the wall.

"Go away," he grumbles.

Maka shuts the door behind her and quietly pads over to his bed. "But you're awake."

"Not a crime. It's still dark. Fuck off."

The bond wavers, her momentary hurt shuddering through his chest like a sledgehammer. He hears her approach the bed but knows she hasn't slipped in yet, because his blankets are still pulled tightly to his chest and his pillow is still his own.

There are times when he regrets bonding with her. Not, he thinks, that she's unlikeable or unpleasant to be around, because she's not - Maka is the equivalent of sunshine, sometimes so blindingly bright that it hurts to stand by her, if just because he feels like a crack on the sidewalk in comparison. Mostly, though, when he does regret forming the inseparable bond with her, it's because she always just innately knows when he's feeling down. It's like she has a sixth sense.

Which also means she knows when he's lying. Or when he's trying to play it off like he's cool and unbothered by Wes' boundless talent and his mother's favoritism, or to act as if his father's aloof and disconnected nature doesn't unnerve him.

Maka reads between the lines effortlessly. She leans forward and brushes the bangs from his sweaty forehead. "Nightmares?"

He grunts in reply.

When he offers nothing else, she sits on the edge of the bed and he feels the mattress dip beneath her weight. Soul gazes at her moodily. He wonders if wearing all white is an actual angel thing or if Maka's got a bit of an obsession, because even in her night wear, she's still adorned in light shades and soft fabrics.

He decides to ask about it instead of letting her play therapist. "Why the white?"

Maka blinks owlishly. She smoothes her hand down her lap, pressing her oversized sleep shirt to her in quiet thought. "It's my favorite color."

"Nerd."

She pouts and pokes his shoulder. "Rude! I don't ask why you wear so much black."

"Black is cool."

"Maybe I think white is cool," Maka says. "It goes with everything. Someday it'll match my wings."

He yawns and rolls onto his back, sleepily rubbing his bare stomach. Her eyes dart from his face to watch him carefully, as if she's suspicious of every movement, and when he clears his throat, she flinches and pinks. He's almost grinning sardonically when he asks, "Where are they, anyway?"

"My wings?" she asks, blinking rapidly. The rosy color of her cheeks glows as his eyes adjust to the shifting darkness, the crack of light lazily peeking into his room. "I haven't earned them yet."

"So you have to earn them? You can't just… sprout them?"

She shakes her head, twin braids slapping her shoulders with every shift of her chin. "Guardian angels don't earn their wings until they've done their duty. Some guardians never get the chance to earn them because their human never asks for help. It's sad, because we exist to help and serve. It's what we do."

Angel culture is more interesting than the monsters hiding in his closet and he'll be damned if he lets such an opportune distraction escape. He squirms his way out of his blanket burrito and squints at her through the fog of night. "Sounds exhausting."

"It's hard work, but it's rewarding," she admits, shrugging.

"And other angels?"

Maka melts into the space beside him, worming her long legs beneath his covers. He lets her, because her skin is warm and her eyes sleepy, but she still keeps her fair distance, arms tucked close to her slim chest as she cautiously presses her cheek to the edge of his pillow. "There are different levels," she whispers, and she's so close that he can make out her faint eyelashes, soft like cotton fuzz. "Guardians, like me, are the closest to the human world. Others are messengers. There are angels who are so high up that they do nothing more than sing in the choir of the heavens."

"That sounds pretentious."

Her brows furrow. "They live a good life."

"And you?" he finds himself asking. "Do you live a good life?"

She smiles sleepily. "I like my life. I think I'd be bored with a life of song. I'm kind of tone deaf, to be honest."

So she has an imperfection. Somehow, it's the best news he's heard, like it humanizes her or something (which doesn't make sense, because she's literally _divine,_ for fuck's sake) but it doesn't dampen the softness of her smile or the brightness of her eyes. She's still Maka, guardian angel with the skinny legs and pigtails.

She reaches cautiously and he lets her touch him. She presses her hands to his cheeks and bites her lip. "You've got so much mania tied up in your soul."

"Don't know what you're talking about," he lies.

"You're so hurt," she mumbles. "So keyed up. I'm sorry."

"You're- why are you sorry?"

Maka presses her cheek deeper into his pillows and sighs. "I'm still so new at this. I wish I could've helped more.."

" _What?"_

"The nightmares," she sighs. He feels a lot like those books she loves reading so much. "The stress dreams. Everything. You haven't tried to run away since that first time, but you're still so unhappy…"

"So fix me," he says flippantly. She looks scandalized. "You've got magic or something, don't you? Just set me right. Fix the fucked up bits in my brain."

She shifts, knobby knees bumping against his, and then she's close, so close, pursing her thin lips and staring at him so passionately that he thinks he might melt away. There's power in her stare, unflappable sentiment, and his malnourished heart soaks it in almost greedily, like a stray cat presented with his first saucer of milk. She presses her fingers along his jaw, his cheeks, over his eyelids, as if she's trying to commit the shape of his face to memory, like he's precious or something.

"I'm not here to fix you, Soul," Maka says slowly, and he can feel her honesty in every breath she takes. "You're not _broken._ "

He laughs humorlessly, voice rough. "I feel broken," he admits, hushed, a secret just between them. He can feel the bond surge, can feel the way her heart is almost swollen with concern.

Her bare feet nudge his ankle. "You can talk to me, you know. That's what I'm here for."

Literally, it's why she's here in the first place, and for whatever reason it doesn't sit well with him. He doesn't need a forced companion, a friend who only cares because it's her _job_ , and before she has the chance to read his expression he's rolling back onto his side, pressing himself as close to the wall as possible. It's unfair to get his hopes up, to dangle actual affection so achingly close just for it to be forced.

She's never had a choice, has she? He's just an _obligation,_ a stepping stone for her.

"Soul-"

He grunts and squeezes his eyes shut. "You're never going to get your damn wings," he grumbles, curling in on himself. _Not through him, at least_ , and she might as well know it. Maybe he's better off on his own. Maybe, _maybe._

"What?"

"I'm not your guy. Forget it."

He's not _anybody's_ guy. Never has been, never will be, and the sour taste it leaves in his mouth doesn't go unnoticed. He tells himself he doesn't care, that he likes going it alone better anyway, but the loneliness shrouds him like a blanket and it's hard to breathe, hard to do anything else but coil himself tight like a porcupine. This is not the kind of care he wants. He's not anybody's job, not anybody's charity case - he's a person ( _mostly_ ) with a few fractures and rough edges - but still a _person,_ and fuck her for existing, for trying, for _getting his hopes up_.

Pity's only one step above manipulation. He's been an Evans far too long to be anything but fluent in _that._

Maka sucks in a breath. "Soul…"

"Go _away_."

And for a while, he thinks he's won, that Maka's given in, but then the bed shifts beneath her weight and then her arms are around him. They're certainly no wings, and much skinnier than his own limbs, but there's an unfappable strength in her reverence, and the way she slides a palm over his heart melts him. She's warm, all body heat and soft skin and lips brushing against the back of his neck, just above the collar of his shirt, mumbling incoherence. Some parts he catches, though, mid notes that he'd recognize anywhere - bits like " _stupid,"_ and " _Soul,"_ of course.

He grunts and squirms, very suddenly caged. "Wh-"

"If you think I care more about a pair of wings, you're stupid," she hisses and oh, there's that tartness in her voice, proof that his angel isn't all sugar and sweetness afterall. His heart thunders beneath her touch. "You're my guy. Our souls are compatible."

" _What-"_

"I can't bond with just anybody," she mutters. "You're _special._ You've always been special, Soul, no matter what you think. Someday I'll get you to believe me."

"You barely _know_ me. You've only lived here a year."

Maka tightens her grasp around him. "I know you well enough to care."

He realizes, later, after Maka's will finally gives way and she falls into the lull of sleep, that he's become the little spoon and is weirdly okay with it. The caged feeling is gone. Instead, he's treated to the subtle sensation of Maka's lashes tickling his skin and her hand, still spread out over his heart like a bandage, and the quiet way she snores and sighs.

Soul finds he sleeps better when he's not alone. What's not enjoyable, though, is explaining to Wes why she's tangled up in his bed the morning after, but the first fleeting moments where she's still drifting between the land of sleep and consciousness is worth it.


	3. Stuck in the Rain

_stuck in the rain_

( 16 )

* * *

Falling for his angel was never part of the plan.

In fact, it's probably one of the worst things he could do; she's here to give advice, to listen, to offer heartwarming smiles and force him out of bed on his worst days - not, he thinks dejectedly, to let him stick his tongue down her throat.

And if only that were the end of it. Maybe he could write it off as simple attraction, a hormonal candle burst of lust, if all he wanted was to kiss her, perhaps even make out a little - but it's not. No, it goes much deeper than that, goes as far as wanting to hold her hand, wanting to embrace her while she sleeps, wanting to brush her hair from her eyes and cradle her face and other things that are decidedly neither professional n _or_ platonic. Not even a little bit.

He _wants_ so much more than just her peacekeeping. Soul's old enough to know himself and his anxieties, knows enough to know that it's just part of who he is, that he's introverted and performing in front of others, while expected of him, might just never work out. And yes, it's frustrating and yes, having someone to vent to (read: Maka) is quite literally a godsend, but lately he's been finding himself gravitating towards her for more than just support.

He _likes_ being able to do nothing with her. He likes the way she laughs so hard she cries and the way her whole face lights up when he surprises her with books and other mementos of human culture, his nerdy little bookworm. More than a guardian angel, more than a mere makeshift therapist - she's his best friend, now, and knowing that the whole reason she's around is to help lead him in the right direction doesn't sit so well with him anymore. Not that it ever really has, of course, but now more than ever, because he _wants_ things that he can't have.

Which is why he needs to get out of the house. Just for a breath of fresh air.

Soul waits until Maka's fast asleep before he slips out. He takes care to leave her a note, lest she wake before his return and worry, and sneaks out through his window, feeling very much the punk-ass kid he strives to be as he scales down the house and lands messily in his mother's (gardener's) hedges.

It's only supposed to be a short walk, but his brain has a hard time shutting up. Before long, Soul finds himself slouched beneath a tree, watching the rainfall splatter along the sidewalk, wondering how he's going to get home without getting drenched - and the damn walk hadn't even done a good job of clearing his head. He sighs and rests his forehead against the bark of the tree, eyes closed and breathing out evenly through his nose. There's no doubt in his mind that he's as good as caught (and in for one hell of a lecture from one petite little angel, complete with finger waggling and book-waving).

At least he's alone, though whether or not he should be left with just his thoughts is debatable.

He can't remember the last time he was alone.

With Maka, his life has felt so much more full. She filled in the spaces he couldn't cover alone, working her way into his heart and blooming, _blooming,_ letting her flowers blossom and spread until he was left overwhelmed with the greenery and life sprouting between the cracks of his fingers. Days spent alone in his bedroom slaving over sheet music and his piano have evolved into peeking over the tip of his papers to watch her tuck her hair behind her ear, cracking grins at her attempts at telling jokes, basking in the innocent glee of Maka discovering how a VCR works _("It's so primitive, Soul, and it's still playing!")_

There's no way he'll ever be able to go back to the way things were before. With her, life is bearable, and the screaming fortissimo of his brain is calmed down to a much more tolerable mezzo forte. Is it because she's heavenly, he wonders, or is it because he's got a giant, squishy crush on her?

The galloping splash of rain boots draws him from his thoughts. He peeks through his tangled bangs and watches Maka juggle her _(his)_ umbrella and Wes' flashlight.

He laughs humorlessly. "This soul-bond thing is a pain in the ass."

"Found you," she quips. She steps forward and the streetlight bleeds bright yellow onto her. The drumming of raindrops over the crown of her umbrella is louder than anything else. Maka clears her throat. "I'm so good at this hide and seek thing."

"You're a _cheater_ is what you are."

The bond pulses and she smiles, tiny and guilty. "Can't help it."

He swallows the lump in his throat and kicks off of the tree. "You stole my boots."

She blinks and stares down at her feet. They're several sizes too large and a laughable bright red, reaching all the way to the brink of her knees. "I don't have any shoes to wear in the rain!"

"I never noticed what chicken legs you have, Maka."

Pink blots her freckles. She stomps a foot and splashes her way through a puddle, eyes blazing. "I- I do not, they're just-!"

"Skinny?" _Bare most of the time? 80% of her body? Weirdly distracting?_

Her pigtails hang low. She must've come straight from bed, haphazardly thrown on a jacket and shoes in her panic to find her boy. Her boy. A prickly, annoying heat raises in his cheeks before he can smooth out the excited jump in his brow and she's pouting right up in his space in no time, sputtering, " _Legs._ "

"Uh?"

"They're just- they're _legs,_ " she huffs. "My wings will be impressive. And _big_."

"Okay."

"You'll see. You'll be jealous."

Soul snorts and stuffs his hands into his pockets. "You do know that, uh, humans don't really get wing lust, right? We also don't look forward to feathers coming out of our backs, you weirdo."

She swats at him with the flashlight. Soul barely dodges getting clocked. "You don't get it!"

He really doesn't. While he's sure that she'll be lovely no matter what she looks like, wings or otherwise, he can't deny the fact that there's a divine brightness about her that, sure, actual angel wings might complete. But without them, he has an easier time pretending she's just a normal human girl - it lets him feel the things he feels for her without overwhelming guilt. With them, well - it'll be a lot harder to deny her heritage when her feathers are fluttering behind her like a heavenly veil.

Denying her angelic reality probably makes him a terrible person. A selfish one, for sure, and he can't even find it in him to vocalize it. Instead he shrugs, wincing at the flashlight as she accidentally shines it in his eyes and takes the umbrella for her, muttering, "Here, I've got it."

Two years ago she'd stood a good few inches taller than him. Now, though, he's pulled ahead - literally, _a head_ taller than her - and it doesn't go unnoticed. It sort of changes up their whole rhythm, if only because she can no longer easily embrace him with her entire form. It's more like a koala situation now; she wraps her (skinny but really _lovely, he's a dirty rotten liar_ ) legs around his waist, links her arms around his chest and lets the heated bond of their souls do the embracing. It gets the job done. Probably a little too well.

Maka grins at him and nudges him in the ribs with an elbow. "What a gentleman," she says, her hand dangling dangerously close to his. Their fingers brush and _his_ heart sprouts wings.

"Mm," he grunts. "Sometimes."

Her fingers find their way between his and he thinks he might get her fascination with wings. Heart soaring, blood pumping - it's gotta be like flying. He bites back a grin and tilts the umbrella, just enough to keep her out of the rain. A little water on his shoulder won't hurt him.

"Are you okay?"

He glances at her. She stares back at him, unabashed, eyes luminous.

"Uh," he says.

"You never go out for a walk unless you have a lot on your mind. You're too lazy," she jabs, lightly, and he grasps her hand tighter in response. "What's up?"

"Nothing."

Soul swallows his remorse and rubs his thumb along the back of her palm, where her skin is soft and damp. He can't very well tell her the whole, honest truth - that he's struggling to keep his feelings to himself, inappropriate feelings that would taint an otherwise very healthy, helpful relationship. Getting greedy and wanting more than what is allotted is not something cool guys do. Who is he to impose upon her earning her wings? It's not who he wants to be, so he keeps it locked up tight, sealing the deal with a crooked smile and shy wink.

Her skin is so warm. Her hand is like a tiny little heater. She squeezes his hand right back and nods quietly. The bond works both ways, and while he can tell she's not convinced - he's _not okay,_ not entirely - he also knows that she trusts him. And that's enough to silence the whisperings for now, the age-old demons crawling back beneath the bed.

Instead, she flashes the light in front of them. "Nice night," she jokes.

"Beautiful weather we're having," he says right back.

A summer night's rain has become a downpour. The pattering of rain on the umbrella has become a chorused drumline, but it's fine, because it drowns out the hammering of his pulse in his ears. There's something so intensely soul-searching about holding hands with her like this, acting as if this is normal for someone like him. He wants to tug her hand to his mouth and kiss the back of her palm, just to see what she might do. Just to see what it would feel like, to be so close to someone and maybe have it reciprocated.

"It's warm though," she mumbles. "Warm rain."

They're in the middle of a crosswalk when Maka tugs him suddenly. He stumbles after her and she spins, facing him with bright cheeks and green eyes. It's impossible to not be spellbound by her. The umbrella teeters dangerously and she stands in the downpour for a moment, fat raindrops darkening the light fabric of her sleepshirt.

"What?" he hisses. "What was that for?"

"Have you ever danced in the rain?"

"I- _No,_ Mom always said I'd get sick- why?"

She purses her lips. "... I saw it in a movie."

"What kind of movies have you been watching with Wes? Romcoms?"

The flashlight flickers off and she daintily sets it by their feet. Oh. She's _serious_. "You're in white," he finds himself saying, watching with bated breath as she takes a step backward and into the night shower. Their linked hands remained chained, arms a taut line, and her fingers grasp his knuckles securely.

Two things become very obvious. One, her hair is thin and her pigtails sags noticeably when drenched and two, she's most certainly not wearing a bra. Which, _ah,_ makes sense, because Maka isn't exactly the most _endowed_ girl he knows, but he discovers with almost disturbing clarity that angel nipples are just as perky and fascinating as human ones. And _distracting_. Boy, are they distracting. And cute. Aaand he should definitely stop looking right now.

His mouth is so dry. " _Maka._ You, uh-"

She tugs again. "I want to be human for a little bit. Teach me."

"About being stupid and getting _sick_?" Or, he thinks, determinedly keeping his eyes above her shoulders, about humans and biology and arousal and how he's very, _very_ attracted to the pseudo-human body she walks in. Yeah, that would be a good thing to teach her. He doubts that's come up in any of those VCR instruction manuals she's been reading as of late.

Maka shakes her head. "Living. Come on, help me use these legs."

He can feel his eye twitching. No, no, no. "You can walk plenty well on your own."

"Isn't dancing in the rain a thing?"

"We don't have any music."

She pulls his hand one last time and, as if he's chained to her tether, he falls into her step. The open umbrella splashes behind him and she's smiling, soaked to the bone, leaning up to wrap her arms around his neck. "Maybe none that you can hear," she says secretively, and his arms fall around her waist as if magnetized to her.

If the lamp post is their spotlight and the crosswalk their stage, it might be the first time he's been unafraid of the limelight. How can he feel fear when Maka begins to sway in his arms, humming a tune he's never heard but innately knows in his heart - a song he's written without ink, locked somewhere deep inside him, an echo of songwriting attempts of the past. She's flat. She might as well be tone deaf. It doesn't lessen the effect, not even a little bit, and he stares at her as if she's made of starlight and miracles.

Maybe she is. She grins and pulls him down to press her forehead against his, noses brushing.

"How," is all he gets out.

Maka shrugs and brushes her damp lips over his cheek, his jaw, before settling herself beneath his chin. "I hear you."

"Hear me?"

"Mhmm," she hums. They sway, stepping back and forth, as she lets him lead for once. He wants to set his hands on her hips and feel her rhythm beneath his palms. He wants to write _her_ , but the moment is gone with a gust of summer breeze and Maka unwraps herself from him, twirling into the center of the street, looking silly and precious and perfect in his rubber boots.

Her bangs hang heavy over her eyes. She's like a wet dog, straggly and tiny, but still the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

Soul follows her into the street, galloping and laughing, and takes her hand again, holding tight.


	4. Ink

_ink_

( 17 )

* * *

"Make sure they're pretty!"

Nothing's prettier than her bare back. No wings could hold a candle to the pale, slender curve of her spine.

Even her shoulders are beautiful. Soul sits in reverent silence as she stretches out comfortably. Maka tucks her arms beneath her cheek and lies down, leaning her head to the side, blonde hair feathered over her milky white shoulders. He stares, unsure if touching her is an option or not, afraid that skin-to-skin with her, however arguably platonic, might stain her. She's perfect, with her freckled shoulders and dainty waist and back dimples, and he sits beside her on his own bed, watching with bated breath as she slides against his blankets.

It's not like she's completely naked. Her bottom half is still covered, thankfully, by a pair of his old sweatpants, and she's lying on her stomach, so it's not like he's getting any introductions to her bare breasts. Still, it's more arousing than anything he's ever experienced, and he swallows the lump in his throat while trying to figure out how to hover over her without being gross.

She's a living, breathing canvas. Her lashes flutter as she blinks. Soul has a hard time not staring at her face, rosy cheeks and button nose and all. Is her back a better place to look? He crawls on top of her hesitantly, allowing himself to sit on the back of her thighs with boundless precaution; the rise of her ass is uncomfortably close to his business, and if she moves even just slightly, things could take a turn for the awkward. But what other choice does he have? Is he supposed to just sit on her rump, as if that's any better? Should he crush her back by sitting there? How can he draw wings on her back while sitting on it?

Maka sighs beneath him and squirms. He sits, ramrod straight, and wills down the inappropriate boner.

Right. Keep it together.

"Maybe I don't want to," he teases.

Her lips curl into a pout and she huffs. "I want to be cute! Give me fluffy wings."

Soul uncaps the marker and cautiously presses a hand along her shoulder blades. "Don't wiggle," he warns, even though he's the one shaking and he's got the ink in his hands. Pretending that this isn't the most intimate thing he's ever done is out of the question; she breathes and he feels her body move and shift beneath his palm. The skin here is just as soft and warm as the skin along the inside of her wrist, where she's delicate and he can see her veins. She is slender but not weak. There's strength beneath him, a tiny firecracker of passion and power, and he swallows his lust to press the tip of the marker down her spine.

Maka breathes in and he draws out, sketching in jagged, rough lines. Fluffy, cute wings, he thinks, aren't befitting of someone like her. She is no flowery pixie, no floaty angel of only pretty words and soft sighs. She is life; she is the darkness of his nights tucked against him, she's the light at the end of the tunnel, she's her temper and her smile and her laugh, high and fluttering. No, she deserves wings that can carry her. Wings with strong, dark outlines and prominent boning. Damn _cool_ wings.

"Your dad's been awfully persistent lately," she mumbles.

Soul blinks back his concentration. "Yeah, well," he says. He's already shading in her left wing, bringing depth to the pale length of her back. "Gotta start thinking about colleges, don't I? It's about that time."

She barely nods. "College… what do you want to do?"

"Not like it really matters."

Her shoulders go taut. She cracks her eyes open and peeks at him over her shoulder, neck straining. He pauses his careful strokes. "It does."

"As long as he's paying, not really. I'll end up applying to whatever big-name school he decides is befitting of the family and I'll get in through my last name alone."

Maka chews her lip. "Soul-"

"Regardless of any talent I may or may not have," he mumbles. "And then someone else, who's better suited to go to some fancy-ass school, will have to settle somewhere else because of my parent's last name. I'll get to be Wes Evans' little brother for another four years. And then some."

She squirms. Soul squeezes her shoulder. "Sorry, but- You decide what you do with your future. That's nobody's decision but your own."

"Is that how it works where you're from?"

He hears her sigh again. "It's how it _should_ work. How can you ever expect to be happy if everyone else is making decisions for you all of the time? You'll never get to step out of anyone's shadow if you're not allowed to make the choice to leave."

The conversation is too heavy for a moment so magical. He's supposed to be drinking in the softness of her skin, enjoying the contrast of the dark, inked wings against her pale complexion, not contemplating the direction of his future profession. He takes a deep breath and continues sketching, this time drawing the completed wing's twin. Maka stares over her shoulder as he works, her eyes never straying even for a moment, and his resolve melts like butter under her watchful stare.

"What do you want me to say?"

She doesn't even blink. "What do you want to do, Soul?"

"Not perform ever again, that's for sure."

"But you love music."

He does. He really does. What he doesn't love is the public aspect, the part where he walks on stage with those white-hot lights thawing his carefully maintained facade and the audience waits for him to fuck up. He's bound to fuck up. He always does, and then Dad frowns and Mom's brows crease in pity and Wes still stands up and claps at the end anyway. And he hates it, hates _everyone_ and _everything about it_ and he doesn't want to think about it. How can he enjoy music if it's tied into something he despises so deeply? If the very thought of putting himself in the limelight makes him physically nauseous?

But he is the music man to her, anyway. She can hear his melodies, knows his songs before he's even thought to write them down. It's invasive. It's personal. He wants to shut his brain off and stick out his tongue at her and know her deepest, most personal compositions, too.

She blinks finally. "You're upset," she says.

"No shit." But he doesn't stop drawing. There's half a wing done. She's a piece of art now, and he's still too intrigued to let the inspiration expire. "I wish you'd stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Poking around. Sticking your nose where it doesn't belong. _Reading me._ "

"I'm _trying_ to help you."

He grits his teeth. "You don't know what it's like."

"What?"

The marker leaves a bold line down the arcs of her ribs. Each rise and fall rumbles beneath his hand. "Let me in. Fair is fair."

He doesn't expect her to give in. Maka is kind but private. She's emotional but not an open book, so to speak. In the four or so years he's known her she hasn't let much slip. He knows she is a guardian, knows she was born and raised by angelic parents, knows that she aspires to gain her wings and become full fledged. He knows she's hardworking. She loves to read and learn and soaks up new information like a sponge. She makes the most delightful sounds when she stretches out at the end of the night, toes curling and all. She likes sour things more than she does sweet.

He doesn't know what her music sounds like. He doesn't know what keeps her up at night, besides prayer-calls to her Mama that always leave her curiously bleary eyed.

But she does give in. The gate is blown wide open and Maka the prodigy lets him in to hear it all.

He learns by proxy that her mother is a very renowned angel. Much higher up and celebrated than her papa - who, he is saddened to discover, is a bit of a deadbeat, and slacks off from his guardian-ly duties to drown in his vice of choice, women. Her mother is often busy with work. Too busy to talk to her, and Maka's late-night prayer sessions are usually met with a metaphoric dial tone.

Through it, he hears _her._ Her drive, her ambition, her desire to be better, to be something, to be _somebody_ \- her longing for someone, to be a little less lonely, and there's a simple melody in the pits of her soul. It's not unhappy, but it's also not exactly joyous. It's a little bit of both.

He drags the marker down her lower back and leaves a rough edge to round off the bottom of her last wing. Her song is catchy and makes his fingers itch, makes his blood burn. He wants to scratch out the notes down her spine in this dark, blunt ink and memorize her harmonies. Maka trembles beneath his touch as he drags his index finger down the dip of her spine and the tempo doubles.

 _This_ is the most intimate thing he's ever done.

For a moment, he is a composer. She is an angel with dark, strong wings and a fire inside of her. Maka breathes and blinks life and with a single finger tracing the stark outline of feathers, he can influence the tumultuous melody of her song. Suddenly it's not enough - and he needs a blank sheet of paper, needs a pen, so he can jot down these notes and memorize it, so that when she inevitably moves on he will still have a piece of her with him.

Soul brushes aside the hair blanketing her neck. She's blushing even here, glowing a darling pink. Maka puffs out another sigh. "Is this better?"

He traces the line of her shoulderblades. "Much."

"Can we talk now?"

He would much rather listen. Soul wants to dip his finger down and feel the drumming of her pulse. Percussion can only add a steady beat beneath her wings, the hammering that keeps her alive.

"I want to write," he says in a daze.

"... Music?"

 _You,_ he thinks. _I want to write_ _ **you.**_

"Yeah."

Maka presses her face back into his pillows. Her hair slides over her shoulders like silk. He brushes it away and kisses the tips of his fingers to her warm neck. If this is religion, then consider him a saved man. He wants to kiss her spine and bite the delicate, swooping curve of her neck and lick her throat and taste the skin she walks in. He wants to commit her to memory.

"-S'upposed to do that," she mumbles into his pillowcase.

"Huh?"

Maka wiggles and worms around beneath him. "I wasn't-" she huffs. "I'm not supposed to let you in to hear me like that. I'm supposed to be a guide."

"I'd much rather have you be my equal."

She might have no feathers yet but he still feels the fluttering of something, deep in the pit of his chest. Like a caress of his very being, and - being bonded with her is as confusing and frustrating as it is a treat. His soul's been kissed by an angel and he's so, so spoiled.

"... Most guardians don't… we're here to _help,_ " she moans pitifully. "Not stress humans out with our problems."

His legs move and he scooches off of her. Dropping beside her, he has the privilege of watching her roll and turn to face him, face rosy. Her blush spreads so far down, painting along the soft curve of her chest, glowing over the slight shape of her breasts. Maka hugs an arm over her chest and tugs a blanket closer - it's not like he can see anything he shouldn't, but the hint of what she's graced him with is enough to draw his attention. It reminds him that there is a beautiful, half naked girl curling in his sheets and it's a damn good thing he had the foresight to lock his door.

Her fingers reach and rest on his cheek. "Do you trust me?"

"More than anything," he says without missing a beat.

Maka smiles softly. "I want you to know me. I guess… don't tell anyone I let you in. It can be our little secret."

"Will you get in trouble?"

Her shoulders bunch up as she shrugs. "I wouldn't be the first and I won't be the last," she admits, and her hand moves to trace the line of his jaw. Then she's pouting and mumbling, "You really need to shave. You're getting stubbly."

"Later." For now, there are other things to focus on - like rolling over and grabbing the notebook he keeps tucked under his bed and fishing out a pencil. There are still stanzas and lines of song emblazed on the back of his eyelids and he needs to let them out before they burn away at him any more.

Half an hour later, when writing is less frantic and the song has lulled, Maka rolls over and sets her chin on his shoulder. He would be more self conscious over letting her see but it's not like she can read sheet music anyway. She tucks a smile into his neck and he feels it rumbles through his heart.

Her nakedness doesn't even register anymore. Bearing her soul is more revealing than any amount of soft, virgin skin.

"Did you make them pretty? And fluffy?"

Soul snorts and shoves the music aside to ruffle her hair. "Something like that."


	5. Red String of Fate

_red string of fate_

( 18 )

* * *

His only consolation is that he didn't have to be around to watch her sprout her wings. The whole thing sounds so gruesome to him - in theory, her pretty, fluttering wings might sound like a dream, but the whole concept of something _coming out of her back_ seems a little horrific. Regardless, she takes another level in badass when she practically floats into his room, hours later, practically _glowing._

"I did it!" she gasps, grinning widely, and dammit all, he can't help but smile back, however sadly. "Look!"

As if there was ever any question whether _Maka Albarn_ would earn her wings. She's a vision, green eyes limpid for the first time in months, wings soft and yet broad, glittering a magnificent white in the afternoon light. He thinks he might understand her fascination with the color now; it shrouds her in brilliance, makes her really look the part of sparkling, pristine angel, like he might really stain her. It's pretty in a way that really only can be admired and not held. He still prefers the wings he gave her, wings that have a bitter edge but still the strength to carry her light and her darkness alike.

But there's no chance in hell he'll purposefully dampen her moment. Soul puts on his best brave face, swallows his fears in the way she's taught him to do so brilliantly and says, "You sure did."

"They're pretty!" she gushes.

"They look soft."

Her smile breaks his heart. "I did it."

She _did._ Which, he presumes, means she's done what she was summoned to do - to lift his spirits, or lead him, or _whatever_ it is she's done to him over the past few years to make him feel a little less like disappearing. Her angelic wiles take less credit than her companionship but he won't say it out loud. With Maka, it's best to let her bask in her stubborn little victories than to shatter her optimism with reality. For a little bit, anyway, until she's back in Heaven and reunited with her mother.

Maka just about flutters over to him. "They're - they're bigger than I expected," she admits. "I'm not used to them yet. I nearly knocked Wes in the face on the way here, I was so embarrassed-"

That earns an honest grin. "I wish I saw it."

He pats the bed beside him and she tucks her legs beneath her, sitting close and pressing her hands into her lap. Her victory frames her, feathery and broad. Maka's glee is palpable, and he feels a little bad not sharing her enthusiasm.

Sharp as a whip, she clues in quickly. "You're upset?"

"I'm not. I'm proud of you. _Happy_ for you."

"You're frowning," she says, reaching out and cupping his face. She doesn't touch him any differently. Her palms are warm on his cheeks, fingers splayed through his hair. The familiarity doesn't help ease the crippling dread of impending doom. "Soul?"

For a moment, he allows himself to rest in her hands. His eyes droop and he breathes out slowly, soaking it all in. He wants to commit it to memory, so that when she's gone and all he's left with is an empty bed he'll have something to look back on. "I'm just," he starts, but his voice fades, rough and dark with _something_ he doesn't care to put a name to. "I'll miss your books, you nerd. You leave them everywhere and it's going to be weird to not have to clean instruction manuals off of my bed in order to get some rest-"

"Wait," she says unblinkingly. "Why would I stop?"

"... Because you have your wings?"

"They're not _new eyes!_ "

"No, but you are a full-fledged guardian now, aren't you?" he asks bluntly. He can practically see the cogs in her brain working, can see the words ready to burst from her lips. "You did it. You're done."

"I-" she gapes at him for a moment, wings wilting. "Are you kicking me out?"

"What? No!"

She grasps him like a lifeline and he lets her, gathering the courage to blanket her hands with his own. Her eyes are sad, a hazy hardness he knows well. "I don't _have_ to go anywhere. If that's okay."

"But," he fumbles for words, clasping her hands tighter. They slide from his face and down to his chest, when she pauses over his heart, pressing tight. He knows it's hammering beneath her touch. "Your, _uh,_ wings. Isn't this like a promotion?"

Maka shakes her head and her dorky pigtails get caught in her feathers. He doesn't bring it up and she doesn't notice. "No, it's like coming of age. Like you did this year when you turned 18."

"You have to earn adulthood?"

She nods slowly. Gradually, but surely, wayward strands of ashy gold slip from between the fluff of her wings and dust over her pale shoulders. She's got a halter top on today, not that it really matters, but he suspects it'll become the norm for her very soon, being that it leaves her back very bare for her wings to stretch out comfortably.

Soul purses his lips. "That sucks."

"It only happened because of you," she admits, smiling shyly and melting him like butter. "I don't really want to leave."

"Don't," he says simply. There's something ballooning in his chest, something hopeful and "Uh, but- you won't be able to leave the house anymore. Can't exactly have you walking around with those things knocking people over. Not exactly, uh, inconspicuous. It's one thing if it's my parents and Wes, because they, uh, _know_ what you are, but-"

She bounces where she sits, grinning eagerly. "I can hide them! There are a bunch of angels walking the Earth that you don't even know about."

Wings are _retractable._ Soul laughs and only moves his hands from hers to cup his face as he cackles. It's not even that funny, really, but the sheer emotional release from the confirmation that his best friend isn't flying out like a bird finally set free is too much. There are still so many questions - doesn't she miss her mother? What will she do here, now that she's done her duty as a guardian? What was her duty, exactly? - but he can't bring himself to care, not while he's peeking through the cracks of his fingers and she's smiling, smiling, smiling.

"I like it here," she admits, once his laughter has subsided and their hands find each other again. Their fingers lie laced, sitting on the sparse space on the bed between them - Maka's just a breath away and the urge to hug her is stifling, but he resists, barely, with the same sort of repression he always brandishes to deal with his affection.

He squeezes her fingers. "You just like reading my parents out of house and home."

"Oh," Maka sighs, "I think they can afford it."

"Yeah, maybe."

There's a look in her eye, one that tells him things are about to get emotional again, and he fixates on the curve of her lips and the way she shapes sounds to get him through the rough patch. Words have never been his forte. They're hers, but if it's what she needs to get her feelings across, he'll sit and listen forever. He likes listening. He likes listening a lot, especially when it's for her.

And sure enough, Maka squeezes his hands right back. "You're my best friend, Soul," she says, and there's a pink glow drowning her that goes deeper than just her flesh. He can feel it in her soul, the way the invisible something that ties them together tightens, hotter and hotter. He can't breathe - but then _she_ does and he feels it in _his_ lungs. "And I mean that. It's not just because you're my human."

"I mean," he says, "I am _your_ human."

The moment is tender but she still bites back a little smile. There's a possessive quirk in her lips and he wants to taste it because really, he's _hers,_ no matter the circumstance, and she might as well know it. "I _meant_ that you're not just a job for me. The wings are _wonderful_ but I would've hung around for as long as you let me if this hadn't happened."

"What about your mom?"

She bites her lip. "... It's not like she's answering my calls anyway…"

"Maka," he starts, concerned.

"No, don't," she cuts him off. Her brows crease, that little v shape between them that he always has a hard time not reaching for and smoothing out reappearing. "It's complicated. I love Mama, I do, but-"

"Busy?"

Maka sighs morosely. "Mama is very high up. She's one of His most trusted assistants."

"That doesn't mean she should neglect her daughter."

"It's different for us."

Her frown tells him otherwise. How different can it be, when he hears her sniffling nightly after coming to bed (again) without a word from her mother?

But he doesn't push. It's not his place to. All he knows how to do is offer his silent support, be it a crooked smile or a chaste kiss to her forehead - both, this time, and he has the pleasure of listening to her breathe out through her nose, trembling in her attempt to keep herself collected. "Maka," he mutters. "I'm not going anywhere either. If you want to stay, it's yours."

"We're fated," she blurts.

That incessant ballooning something in his chest expands impossibly and Soul forces his expression neutral. "Yeah?"

"We have a bond."

"We _do._ You use it to get inside my brain."

"Not your brain," she says quietly. Her thumbs rub slow circles into his skin and he wills his palms not to get clammy and gross. "Your _soul_. All guardians have one with their humans, but ours is... " she hesitates and he watches her, fixated, as she finally spits out, " _special,_ " all the while blushing that darling, distracting pink. "And it's not like I've never had a choice. Some angels never come to Earth. And most of those who _do_ don't… open themselves up."

His mouth feels so very dry. "Yeah?"

"Mmmm," Maka hums, feeling up his wrist for his pulse point and sighing when she finds it. It seems to soothe something in her, because before the moment is up, she's drawing her long legs out from under her and worming her way under his covers. The way she blinks up at him is sleepy, long lashes giving languid flutters as they kiss the height of her cheeks, and he wonders how anything so beautiful could exist.

All divine intervention has done is left him a sappy, mushy-brained fool. A sappy, mushy-brained fool that writes music occasionally and (even more rarely) takes pride in his work, but _still_ \- it's a far shot from the unhappy tween he'd been years ago before she made her way into his life.

"Sleepy?"

Her wings tuck against his knee. He wonders what it would be like to pet one, just for a moment, to see what it felt like.

"Nap time," she mumbles. "Join me?"

He'd be a fool to say no. Soul slips into the place beside her, feet dangling off the end of his bed, and Maka finds a way to circle her wings around him. It's like a second blanket but more, because they move with every steady breath she takes, and the way she smiles, so completely content with everything in her life, is too much to deny. Sleep comes easily.

.

Later, when night has fallen and they're both wide awake (maybe afternoon naps aren't the best idea) Maka lets him touch her.

"Just-" she huffs a little, shoulders squirming, wings shifting clumsily, "be _gentle._ They're sensitive."

Well, he can add that to his ever growing list of things to stew over in the shower.

Sensitive wings. _Kinky._

He tries not to let it get to his head, but she flexes them again and he's magnetized to one like a moth to a flame. Like her, they are soft but strong, puffed feathers and solid, warm muscle beneath. She trembles beneath his touch, a little shiver and shudder despite his already very tender ministrations and he swallows the lump forming in her throat. She wasn't kidding. They're _sensitive._

Is this another one of those _things_ most angels don't let humans do? The fact that he might be intruding upon something intimate and personal - and the fact that she's let him, _again_ \- well, it makes him want to ruffle her feathers in a very different way.

Her breath comes out in a short puff. He grazes the space where skin meets wing reverently, tenderly and Maka actually _moans,_ however quiet and reserved. She cups her mouth with her hands in a desperate attempt to mute herself but he can still feel it, reverberating through her, buzzing through her skin to his fingertips.

_He_ lets out his own shaky breath. "'S- issit good?"

As if she doesn't trust her own voice, Maka gives a little jerky nod.

Her feathers are silky soft. He wonders what it would be like to pet the arches of her ribs the same way, to feel her tremble around him, not just through this soul-deep bond they have. But curiosity killed the cat, and Soul withdraws before things get out of hand.

Maka glances over her shoulder. She's blushing everywhere - cheeks, ears, back of her neck. "Like them?"

He manages to snort. "Doesn't matter, they're not part of my body."

"No, but-!"

"They're _nice,_ " he says emphatically. _Nice_ doesn't even begin to cover what he thinks of them - or how he feels, even, about the fact that she's graced him with such permission to touch her in a way that moves her so deeply - but knows that without a doubt, she can call his bluff. And even when she stays silent, pursing her pink lips together and staring at the center of his chest, he still knows she's aware of the truth.


	6. Feisty

_feisty_

( 19 )

* * *

He really should knock it off.

But he can't help it. She had been cute when she was pissed off pre-wings but now she's downright adorable. Part of the thrill, he thinks, is watching such an extended part of her rustle as she stomps her feet and growls - because even as she's in a short skirt and pigtails, she still manages to look intimidating, and yeah, maybe he's a sucker for her bare legs and likes wondering what they would feel like around his face, but her wings are a year old yet still whimsical and _new_ to him.

Plus he knows what they're capable of. He has private, intimate knowledge of how Maka moans when he slides a hand up the stem of her wings, tracing her spine with just the very barest touch of his fingertips, and if that isn't reason enough to ruffle her feathers in whatever means he's capable of, then so be it. What's an old Playstation 2 game manual to the face in exchange for a glimpse at her soul?

They glitter brightly and nearly knock one of Wes' trophies off of the bookcase. "You- oooh, shut up!"

He grins and reaches to tug on her pigtail. It's a cheap replacement for what he really wants to do (crush his mouth over hers and taste her little angry sighs, tuck her leg around his waist and press her to his bedroom door, bite her neck and rub that interesting place along her back that had earned him a moan those months ago) but it'll have to do. "Need some help reaching something, shortstuff?"

"I could hover, if you'd move!"

Twirling her hair around his finger is such a pleasant pastime. "You'd knock something over. They're too big. I mean, they're not that big, you're just _tiny-_ -"

"It's not the size, it's how you use it!" Maka insists.

"Can I get that in writing?" he asks cheekily.

The pinch to the nose he gets is probably well deserved. _Worth it,_ though, for the look on her face. She _humphs,_ turning quickly, her hair slipping from his grasp as she jumps on her toes again, arms outstretched towards the object of her desire - a _book,_ of course, because what else would Maka be so worked up over? Soul contemplates nabbing it and holding it out of her reach, just to mess with her a bit, but decides against it. Maybe nineteen is too old for childish methods of flirting.

"I just-" she whines, wobbling on her toes, one foot waving in the air. "I'm almost-"

"Will you relax if I grab it for you?"

"No! I can get it!"

Stubborn, _stubborn_ Maka.

"Fine," he grunts, stuffing his hands into his pockets and taking a step back to watch her failed attempts at growing three inches. There's a smug sort of satisfaction in watching her struggle to reach things. Fourteen year old Soul sings within him, proud of his growth spurt for putting him just over a head taller than her. His deprived self esteem isn't about to pass up that sort of validation; yes, Soul Evans is _quite a bit_ taller than one Maka Albarn, and yes, it strokes his ego in the most delicious ways.

Maka huffs and hops for it again. Wes's trophies shudder on their shelves and Soul decides that explaining why his brother's prized possessions have scuff marks on them isn't worth Maka's pride. "Back up, Maka."

"But!"

He sets a hand on top of her head and snorts. "I'll grab you all the books you want, nerd. Just quit it before you break something. I swear, you're like an elephant in a china shop-"

"I am not!"

"Wes begs to differ," he banters, grinning again, unable to help himself. "He had a bloody nose because of those featherbags of yours whacking him in the face."

She balks, face red. "I didn't mean to-!"

"Yeah yeah, I know. _Accident_." But still funny, and he easily reaches the prize atop the shelf and holds it out to her. "There. And no one had to get hurt."

" _I'll_ show _you_ getting hurt," she says, pouting, but she hugs the book to her chest and mutters a tiny " _Thank you,"_ anyway.

And with that, she spins and hurries down into his room, feathers fluttering behind her. Satisfaction purrs deep in his chest and he tones it back, rubbing his heart idly with the palm of his hand, wondering why something so mundane and normal has him so pleased. She's stayed in his room for years, since they discovered, together, that Maka sleeping so near helped keep his nightly demons at bay. It's been the living arrangement for as long as he can remember. Maka pushing her way through his door and planting her long legs on his sheets is not _new;_ he chalks it up to nerves and follows her in. They've spent the year living in an apartment near his campus. It's probably just a homecoming funk. Or something.

Maka bounces excitedly on his bed, flipping her way through the book. He squints, unsure of what he'd even grabbed for her. Ah, well, it probably doesn't matter in the long run - if she's managed to find something she hasn't already read cover-to-cover in the house then she deserves to be excited.

As if she knows he's staring, she flicks a little glance at him. "You should play something."

Greedy girl. "I always play for you. Give my fingers a break."

"But you're so good!" she begs, and that purring _something_ in his chest rumbles like an engine. "Play me something new. Something you're still working on. Maybe I can help."

He snorts but rounds his keyboard anyway. "You don't know the first thing about composing music, nerdbrain."

"I know what sounds good!" she insists, and then she's on her feet, book tucked against her slight chest. Her skirt rides up her thighs when she plops herself down next to him on the bench and Soul takes a moment to (chastely) fix her predicament. Whether it's for her comfort or his own state of mind is up for debate. "Or," she says, grinning, "you could teach me how to play."

"Ugh, god," he groans at once. " _No._ "

"Soul!"

"Piano isn't _easy,_ Maka. You're not exactly the picture of grace, you know."

"And you are? You snore in your sleep! And scratch your ass in public!"

"It takes rhythm. Something that you don't have."

She pouts, brows crinkling. "How do you know that?"

"I've seen you try to dance."

Her grip tightens on that book and Soul regrets arming her with potential weaponry. He flinches, muttering an apology, and making use of _his_ sense of rhythm to soothe that wrinkle in her brow. He doesn't play her something new, per say, but an older piece, something he's had cooking for a long while. It's his most private work in progress, a piece that always brings him back to her, and she relents almost instantly. She might recognize it. It's been tinkling along in the back of his head for a while, growing slowly, slowly, until it's gathered a proper harmony to her vibrant melody.

The book slides to her lap. She sets her palms down and sits straight, at attention. Distantly, he can feel the brush of feathers along the back of his neck and steels himself, wills himself not to lose his groove. It's not the first time she's shrouded him with her wings and it won't be the last.

He likes that she tries to bubble them away from the rest of the world, likes that she holds him close, like he's a secret, just for her. Because she's like a private little secret for him, a joyous, gleeful half-pint of might and life, and if he can inspire the same secret delight in her, he's more than willing to let her bask in it. Soul shoots her a crooked smile and she beams right back, warm and bright.

"I like it," she says finally, when his fingers have stilled and the silence stews between them. "It's happy, I think."

Soul snorts and taps out _Twinkle Twinkle_ on his left hand. "'Bout as happy as it gets with me, anyway."

"Your stuff has been way more upbeat lately."

He grunts noncommittally and sends her a sideways glance, admiring the way she's smiling, still, so full of sunlight. But because he's Soul, and even though he's made so much progress when it comes to opening up, he's still unable to face her affection without fumbling, he blurts, "It's because of you."

She lights up pink. "What?"

Shit. Shit shit _shit_. "It's your _mood swings_ ," he says quickly, piano keys clattering clumsily. "Hard to not be inspired by you, you know? It's a nice build up for a song. One moment you're smiling like nothing's wrong and then the next you're swatting at me with a book-"

True to form, her wing unfolds to its full length and he's forcibly shoved off the piano bench. Soul tumbles to the floor as Maka _sighs_ , pulling her arms up in a hefty, dramatic stretch. " _Ooooh,_ " she moans as her bones shift into place, and _something_ shifts in him, too, that certainly doesn't deserve immediate attention. "Sorry, jeesh! How did that happen?"

But she's still grinning, not quite so full of sunshine but more-so an easy, lazy smugness that he knows she learned from him. Mischief glows from every pore as she hums, tapping away at assorted keys on his piano. All at once, he's overcome with how much he adores this girl, how comfortable he's grown around her, and he laughs, despite the fact that he definitely hit his head on the way down. When she fixes him with a raised brow, he shakes it off and sits himself up, leaning a shoulder against the bench.

"Maybe I knocked you down too hard," she mumbles.

Soul snorts. "Dweeb. No, just thinking about the dumb look on your face."

"That was the look of righteous justice."

He pokes at her hip. "She asks me to play piano for her, and then she pushes me off. What a woman."

"Oh, so innocent," Maka cooes, grinning, still, as she pushes his hair back from his eyes. "So I'm a dictator, am I?"

"You're _something_ , alright."

Perhaps he says it with too much conviction, too much honesty. She's a whole lot of something, definitely - a whole lot of magic and life, of warm eyes and compassion - of trust, unrelenting trust, and he wonders, not for the first time, if it would be alright to kiss her.

Because, for as long as he can remember, there's been no one else for him but her. Is it still wrong for him to want her so deeply now that she's earned her wings? Is it wrong for him to want her at all? He can't _stop_ himself from loving her, from _wanting_ to kiss back the sunlight from her eyes in the early morning, from _dreaming_ about being with her forever, in a house with two kids, feathers or not, and maybe a dog, too. Soul can very well go on like this forever, not quite her lover but something more than _just_ a best friend, but he's unable to stop himself from wanting that confirmation.

Maybe he doesn't want to hide his feelings forever. Maybe, for once, he wants to get them out into the open, see how they feel on his lips - and see how she feels, too, because he can read interesting, affectionate _somethings_ in the way she looks at him but can't quite put a name to them.

Instead, though, he leans into her touch and sighs, "Like a noisy bird."

" _What._ "

"Wings," he says blearily, corners of his lips twitching, anticipating her burst of anger. His eyes crack and he watches through half-lidded fascination as she turns red, red, red. "And you peck. I have all sorts of little bruises from you, you know, and you're noisy but can't really sing-"

This time, the firm pinch she delivers to his nose is well deserved.


	7. Just Kiss Already

rating went up for the second scene - if you've been reading and you're not one for smut, stop reading after the first scene! thank you so much for giving this a read

* * *

_just kiss already_

(20)

* * *

Wing grooming is still as special and intimate as it was the first time.

They say it's for maintenance; he knows they're lying. Maka's plenty capable of keeping her feathers neat. Maka has magic, however miniscule, and can sink her wings back and shield them from sight - certainly, he thinks, she can keep them primmed and tidy on her own. But she always asks him to help, and he's never been dumb enough to say no; if she's inviting him to touch her in ways so very personal, who is he to turn that down? She's waded through the murky, inky darkness of his innermost fears; the least he can do is help her sort her feathers.

There's something so domestic about it, though, in the privacy of their own apartment. This is _their space,_ a private dwelling for just Soul and Maka, and if that isn't special in its own way, well, what is? He doesn't have to worry about Wes barging in, or impressing his parents, or keeping up any acts of bravado or false confidence - he can just _be._ And with Maka, it's never been easier.

She exhales through her nose slowly as he combs his fingers along the tips of her wings. He stills, just for a moment. "Sorry, did I catch a snag?"

"No," she murmurs. Maka almost sounds peaceful. He can never decide if the process is more arousing or soothing to her; sometimes, while he's straightening her out, her face goes all red and she presses her hands to her face, strung out like a live piano wire, while others - like now - she seems almost drowsy, shoulders limp, posture slouching.

This could very well be foreplay for them and the meaning is not lost on him. Maka _lets him_ touch her like this, and before he can stop himself, before the doubt clogs his throat, he asks, "Is this normal?"

She perks, barely. "Um?"

" _This._ Touching you," he clarifies, dragging a finger down the delicate dip of her spine. "Is this- a thing that normal partners do?"

The back of her neck heats with color, and Maka stutters, "Um, um."

"Maka?"

"... It's not unheard of," she says quietly, finally squirming. Her wings flex and curve and he pets them, like one might a cat, and Maka _shivers,_ of all things. "I- um, it's just, it's really sensitive, and you'd really only do it with someone you trust, and-"

She pauses, trembling, as he strokes down the length of her wing again. This gives him so much power over her, power that, he knows, Maka wouldn't normally give up to anyone. He doesn't really want _power_ over her, per say. What he really wants is the sort of emotional intimacy he can dive into without fear. Physical, too, because he's loved this girl for years and can do nothing but worship her.

"... You're touching a part of my soul," she admits, tiny and flustered.

" _Oh._ "

"Oh," she repeats. "Is- is that weird, for you?"

"I mean, it's not _normal,_ " he says, pausing only to brush his thumb along the place feathers meet skin. Maka inhales sharply. "I- did that hurt?"

There's a moment of hesitation, before she breathes, " _No._ "

Heat prickles through his chest and all of the feelings he's kept locked tight _roar,_ threatening, _begging_ to break loose. He cages it in, barely, and placatingly rests a hand at the small of her back. "Maka?"

"It doesn't hurt," she mumbles. "You wouldn't hurt me."

"Not on purpose, I wouldn't."

"Why didn't you send me away?"

He blinks, startled, as she shifts, staring at him with bottomless green eyes. How many times has he dreamed about those eyes, so powerful, so capable of setting fires, and yet, still compassionate enough to soothe him? "Why _would_ I send you away?"

"In the beginning, I mean. You didn't want me there," she says, fists clenched in the fabric of her skirt. "But you let me stay."

"Maybe I wanted the help but didn't know how to ask for it. You offered. That was a long time ago, Maka. I didn't know you then. And… I don't know," he admits, shyly. "You listened. You let me talk."

Maka nods, takes her eyes off of him for only a moment before her nerve is revitalized, and then she's staring at him again, passionate and expression blown wide. "And when I earned my wings?"

"You're my best friend. You said you wanted to stay."

"I did." She doesn't even blink, not for a moment. It's like there's nothing else in the room but him for her, and he mirrors the sentiment. "And you wanted me to stay?"

He licks his lips. "Yeah."

"But I can't do anything for you anymore," she says. Soul's brows crease - _what?_ \- but she continues in that fearless, reckless way of hers, spilling feelings and thoughts alike with ease. "You're writing music that you're pleased with. You found a way to stick with your passion without having to perform. You don't live at home anymore. I- you've found your way, Soul. But you let me stay."

Heart full, blood pumping, he lets himself slide his hand to the dainty curve of her waist. She doesn't shiver the way she did before but there's still a moment where her breath catches, thoughts stilled, and the green of her eyes is boundless emotion. She doesn't see right through him. She looks at _him,_ at the scruffy, lanky guy with a halo tattoo on his wrist and wild white hair as if he's a _person_ \- and he's never stood a chance in her web, not really, not while she sees deeper than the skin he walks in. How can he turn away the person who saw his soul and never felt fear?

There's a vulnerability in her. For all of her wisdom and strength, there's still insecurity in her - and that is something he knows intimately well, something he's struggled with all of his life, and he'll be damned if he lets it eat away at her for any longer.

"You're more than just an angel to me," Soul admits. The butterflies in his stomach flutter in a frenzy; she moves beneath his palm, turning and twisting until she's facing him, looking more exposed than he can ever remember. "Okay? You have been for a while. Don't think like that. You'll always have a home with me if you want it."

She chews her lip. "It's not that I'm- I'm _so proud_ of you, Soul. You're all grown up. You're more confident. But you don't need me, and I don't know what to do with myself if you don't _need_ me-"

"I'm always going to need you, alright?" His voice feels rough, sandpapery, and the words aren't easy but they're honest, so honest. Each downy flitter of her lashes sways him that much more. "You're my best friend."

"You already said that."

 _Now or never,_ he thinks, swallowing thickly. And with the way she's looking at him, so soft and genuine, he knows it's finally time.

He gathers the courage she inspires in him and says, thickly, "I want to be with you."

That pretty rosy shade colors her again. He watches, fascinated, as it paints along her nose, smudging her freckles, traces down the pretty, slender line of her neck. Her face gives nothing away, carefully poised, lips pressed shut, but her wings give a flutter behind her. "... You do?"

"Always," he amends. "But I don't know if that's okay, or if angel/human relationships are allowed or whatever-"

"It wouldn't be the first time," she says, voice low, "and it won't be the last."

Soul cracks a smile finally, nervously. "Rule breaking nerd."

She takes his hands and places them on her face. She's so very warm, blushing as fiercely as she is, but it's okay, because he's faring no better. He might just combust, feeling the way Maka smiles, the way she moves to grip the front of his shirt, muttering, "Live a little, Soul."

.

Everything falls into place so quickly.

Maka doesn't taste like vanilla and sweetness, like what romance novels and shitty movies have lead him to believe _purity_ does. The whole 'purity' thing kind of skeeves him out anyway. Maka's multifaceted, more than just an angel, more than just his best friend, more than just her kindness. She's smart as a whip. She's stubborn. She yanks on his hair a little too hard when she tries to angle his face to better kiss him, but it's okay. He likes it that way.

Her skin is like religion. Everywhere he touches is soft, velvety soft, thighs and waist and shoulders. When he cups her breasts in his hands she _whimpers_ and it's just about the hottest thing he's ever experienced. It's quickly topped by feeling her nipples tighten beneath his fingertips, taut and pink and delectable and okay, kissing them is also the best thing ever. The whole event is life changing, easily the highlight of his existence. He kisses, he suckles, he licks and bites when she pulls his hair, gasping, whining, _glowing._

It's not embarrassing to have her undress him. She knows him so deeply already. Lifting a shirt over his head is not more revealing than wading through all of his unpleasant thoughts. Pressing her lips to his neck and tasting him herself, though, is deeply moving. And for once, he doesn't have to worry about repressing the feelings she brings out in him, the things he's tried so hard to keep locked tight. He can just _feel._

For her. He can feel for her without fear that it might scare her off. When he gasps and pushes her hair from her face, she presses a smile into his skin.

"I have to shroud my wings," she whispers.

"Don't want to stop touching you," Soul admits, hands tight around her, grasping her waist and pulling her further into his lap. His belt buckle digs into his waist. Fuck, fuck tight pants. "You can just-"

"I won't be able to lay on my back?"

" _I_ can," he pants, adam's apple bobbing as she licks her way up his throat. "Hhhh, _shit_."

Maka leans back, a dark, sultry look in her eyes. He's about to get a little bit of heaven, he thinks, and that look only serves to burn his blood that much more. She pushes and he falls, ever faithful to her lead, and watches, mesmerized, as she makes quick work of his belt.

She is a sight to behold, something people dedicate statues to, something people write music over. It's like she's taking flight when she sinks down on him, wings spread wide, cheeks warm, and he glues his hands to her hips to keep her grounded to him. He wants to watch her fly, wants to watch her soar, but he also wants her to take him with her. She's hot. So hot. Overwhelmingly, body-shakingly so, and his toes curl when she rolls her hips. The light behind her might be haloing her or it might be just her natural glow, but it doesn't matter - she could be a human, an imp, a demon, and she'd still be just as lovely to him.

Her hipbones are sharp beneath his palms. Soul pays his respects, stroking along the curve of her waist, rubbing slow, careful circles just along that bundle of nerves that makes her sob and fumble her easy rhythm. She is slight, but he's not disappointed; breasts are still breasts, and hers bounce all the same, however dainty. He can't take his eyes off of her, afraid if he blinks back her light he might miss something important, like the way her lips part into a perfect little circle, the way her body moves, the darkness of her eyes.

It's nothing like he's ever felt before. The way she moves around him, gasping, the immeasurable _heat_ \- maybe _he's_ the one soaring high.

This, he thinks, is spirituality. She's more important to him than any deity.

"Soul," she says thickly. " _Soul_."

"Ugn, here. Right- fffuck, Maka, right here. _Yeah._ "

Her hands lay flat on his chest as she rolls her hips again. She's so _wet,_ christ, and he can feel every tremble and shudder in his bones. "I can _hear you,_ " she moans. Maka is flying, _flying,_ spine curved like a violin's bow.

"Don't _stop._ "

She doesn't. She does whimper, though, deep in her throat, a shaking sob that has him caressing _just_ a little more firmly.

Kissing her is out of the question - she's too far away - but her mouth still calls to him like a siren, lips pink and pursed and swollen from her teeth's abuse. More than anything else, he wants to swallow her cries, taste the way she cries his name over, and over, and _over._

"I always hear you," she says heavensward, like a prayer.

Soul groans, heels digging into the mattress. "Makaaa, hhhh, _come,_ " he begs, desperately, so close to the brink of something incredible, something he thought he'd never have. "Come, come, come, _please,_ you _need_ to-"

She does so, with a winding gasp, shaking, grasping his shoulders and it's nothing like he's ever felt before. Her release is overwhelming, like the sun peeking through the clouds, and he falls into her coil, tumbling over the edge with her desperately, as she works and _works_ herself through orgasm.

Heart thundering in his chest and thoroughly winded, he slicks back his bangs and pants at the ceiling. Her palm lays flat over the beating of his heart, drinking him in greedily, but he's never had a problem with it. Her music is all around him, finally, finally dulled down to a muted, serene lullaby as she slips him out of her, breath caught.

He wheezes out a laugh and asks, "So, like, am I going to hell for fucking an angel?"

Maka leans over and presses her lips to his forehead. "Mmm," she hums, needlessly secretive, because she's grinning so very widely and petting his jaw, " _maybe,_ if you're not up for a round two."

He tilts her neck down and kisses her mouth again soundly. "I'm your guy," he says against her lips and feels her smile light up his world.


End file.
